December 24 – 1:02 a.m.

Something about the holidays always brings it back – the time I almost had a family.

I found out I was pregnant alone in my bathroom.

I wasn’t surprised. I think I knew before the test even confirmed it — my body had felt off for days. Not sick, just different. Slower. Heavy in a way I couldn’t ignore. The second the faint pink line appeared; it felt like the world quieted. No panic. No breakdown. Just... clarity.

I don’t want to be a mother.

And that time, I didn’t feel torn. There was no confusion, no second-guessing. It was simply the truth. I didn’t want children, and the more I sat with that thought, the clearer it became, I couldn’t handle it. Not then, not now. Not with where I am in my life and with everything I’m still healing from. I thought I could push those feelings aside, but it was impossible to ignore. I’ve spent so much time unpacking the wreckage of my own mental health, my struggles with relationships, my inability to trust myself — and the thought of bringing another life into that... it wasn’t something I could bear.

My mental health has always been fragile, unpredictable, like a storm that doesn't always have an end in sight. The idea of adding the immense responsibility of motherhood — the emotional, physical, and mental toll of raising a child — felt like I was setting myself up for failure. I knew I wasn't in the right place. I knew I wasn't equipped to take on that kind of pressure.

There were too many days when I couldn't manage my own emotions, let alone someone else's needs. Too many days when I felt swallowed by the weight of my own thoughts, my mental health spiraling without warning. The constant fear that I wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t capable — and the fear of passing those struggles onto a child... it was overwhelming.

The day I went to the clinic, a friend came with me. I wasn’t sure I could do it alone, and I didn’t want to. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to convince me to feel differently. She was just there. With me. We sat in silence as I filled out the forms, as I waited. She held my hand, not because I was fragile, but because she understood this decision wasn’t easy — it was necessary.

The waiting room was quiet, the air thick with unspoken stories. The nurse didn’t judge. She didn’t ask about the father or my reasons. She just nodded when I explained it was my first time, explained the process in calm, steady tones. I knew what was happening. It was real, but it didn’t feel as heavy as I expected. I think I had already made peace with it long before that moment.

Physically, the procedure was uncomfortable but not unbearable. A few hours later, I was home, curled up on the couch. My friend stayed with me until I fell asleep. She didn’t ask me to talk. She didn’t need me to explain. She just made sure I had what I needed and let me be.

I cried, but not out of regret. It wasn’t about the pregnancy. It was about the realization that I had spent so long avoiding the truth — avoiding the fact that I didn’t want children. The weight of that truth had been buried under layers of expectation, fear, and shame. It felt almost impossible to admit, but now I knew it wasn’t because I was incapable of love or nurturing. It was because I wasn’t in a place where I could give that kind of care, especially with the state of my mental health.

Motherhood, for me, would have been a war between the person I was still healing from and the future I couldn't envision. It would have meant trying to nurture someone else when I was still trying to nurture myself. And I couldn’t do that.

Choosing not to become a mother wasn’t a failure — it was an act of love. Not just for myself, but for the child I could have had. I couldn't bring a child into a world where I couldn’t give them everything they needed. I couldn’t give them the stability, the calm, the care they deserved when I was still trying to learn those things for myself.

I chose my mental health. I chose my well-being. I chose to heal.

I chose me.

And I would do it again.